


Hawkeye

by darkerhue



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Deaf Clint Barton, clint barton - Freeform, clint barton origin, it's all about clint, minor clintxOFC
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-05
Updated: 2014-11-05
Packaged: 2018-02-24 04:34:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,237
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2568326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkerhue/pseuds/darkerhue
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint Barton wasn't always the sassy SHIELD agent, and like many field agents he has a rough past.  You don't become a spy because you have someone leaving the light on for you.</p><p>My idea of an MCU Clint Barton origin, the gritty stuff between the circus and SHIELD.  Concepts and notes taken from Clint's comic canon, but firmly set in the Marvel Cinematic Universe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hawkeye

                The door on his right, maybe fifteen feet and a head down, squeaked open with a sharp echo.  A blonde stepped through in a crouch with his hands held suspiciously low.  Two clicks went over the coms but the man didn’t turn at the signal.  Not one of theirs then, though he’d already known that from the poorly concealed Five-seveN the poor bastard carried.  No one on their crew used guns, not for these jobs.  He pulled the string back, his arrow already nocked and ready, and lined up the shot.  His bow hand relaxed as he moved, staying just tight enough to keep the limbs from shaking and setting his aim askew.  Breathe in, relax the legs, the back, bring the tension just past the break point and give your arms a rest.  Hold.  Aim.  Breathe out and release.  The man fell with Clint’s arrow through his temple, dead before he hit the ground.

                He pressed three clicks into the ear piece and moved back into the shadows.  Even with the power cut, excellent timing by the storm outside, and the tight space in the rafters, Clint Barton had little difficulty catching any activity skittering around below.  It’d saved his life, and those of their crew, often enough to keep him in the game.  He didn’t like the bash and grab the other did, where they stormed into a building and pummelled anyone unlucky enough to get in their way.  The whole mess was too loud, however ironic it was.  If he was going to be beating anyone into bloody submission, he’d rather have more of a reason than to cause fear in everyone else.  Sitting in his nests, keeping an eye on everything, was quieter.  Everything was easier to gauge from a distance, threat versus ignorant bystander.  If they had the time to consider it, Clint often thought, they wouldn’t fight the crew over a few thousand dollars.

                Lightning flashed and lit the corpse and open door in blue.  The corporate building had suffered after its parent company, Via Corp, went belly up.  No one wanted little touch screen note pads when paper and pens were perfectly usable.  Lucky enough for them; their rivals didn’t need ceiling tiles or clean floors to store their goods, counterfeit or legitimate.  The bottom levels could go about their business, as lawyers and dog groomers and engineering consultation.  Everything Level 5 and above would always be in a state of supposed renovation.

                “ _Seven, moving up, two guns_.”  The radio in his ear crackled to life, leaving a ring in its wake.  Clint hooked the bow over his shoulder, gripped the support beam beneath his feet, and swung himself around.  He landed in Blondie’s red puddle with a nose wrinkling splash.

                “Copy,” he said with a finger pressed just behind his left ear.  “Eight, moving to intercept.”  They weren’t military or spy guys but their background shortcomings didn’t make it any less fun.  He took off through the squeaky door and down the hall, pebbles of sheetrock and curls of dried paint crunching under foot.  They would hear him coming, but stealth wasn’t going to be a reasonable expectation up here.  Maybe three floors down were _someone_ actually bothered to sweep the more travelled paths through collapsed cubicle after collapsed cubicle.

                “ _Give ‘em hell, Robin Hood_.”

                The door to the stairwell opened as he nocked an arrow.  Too close.  He skid to a halt and let the string snap back, the arrow embedding itself into the lead thug’s sternum.  The man fell back with a scream and Clint twisted himself behind a wall.  Three shots chipped the drywall opposite his arm as another set of feet pounded up the stairs.  By his quick estimate, two guns had become three, maybe four.  They’d be coming down the hall now, probably leaving their comrade to his agony in the doorway.

                “Ya picked tha wrong _company_ ta mess wit, friend.”  Shit, the voice came closer than he though.  Clint jerked his head further from the end he’d twisted around as a hole opened up in the plaster.

                “Company?  And here I thought you were a corporation.”  He swung around the corner as the men laughed.  Three hits in and he already had his third man on the ground.  The fourth slammed him into a wall.

                “Oh ya gonna _get it_!  I’m gonna tear ya fu’kin’ _eyes_ out!”  His head connected again with the wall and left a cracked dent.  The world swam, probably from another concussion, and next thing he knew the guy’s thumbs were on his face.  They pressed against his eyes, moved to dig behind and rip them out, and Clint’s knee came up to slam into Guy Four’s balls.  The thumbs fell away from his face.  He turned, brought his elbow around, and felt the man’s nose and cheek crack and splinter.  His other knee came up as he caught his face and put enough of a dent in the gangster’s skull to silence his screams and bring out one of Clint’s own.

                Three bodies and one Sleeping Beauty.  Archers were long range folks, hiding out in trees or crow’s nests, but it didn’t exempt them from being able to down any other threat within an arm’s reach.  He reached up to the button just behind his ear.

                “Eight secure.”

                “ _Copy, coming to your location._ ”

                At a paltry twenty years old, Clint Barton was the youngest on the crew.  Generally it meant he was relegated to coffee runs, lookouts, and watching any hostage until the ransom came through.  Specifically it meant they didn’t trust him to not go trigger crazy or freak out at the sight of a dead, or mutilated, body.  Green horns had a reputation for bailing when the going got tough.  They were easier for cops to dig into and turn and that was something Trickshot wanted to avoid at all costs.  Prison business wasn’t nearly as lucrative as running around free.  To them it didn’t matter that he’d been stealing from department stores and gas stations since he could walk; he was a liability until he wasn’t.

                Fresh echoes from the stairwell brought Clint back from his musings.  Another arrow nocked, he flattened himself against the wall and waited.  Two clicks crackled in his ear before Jeremy stepped to the landing.  He released the tension and dropped the bow down, one eyebrow raised under his black hat.

                 “Gonna hold my hand?”  Jeremy snorted and stepped over the bodies.  A stout man, Jeremy’s strength was in his legs and chest.  He’d seen the man weather bats and pipes to the ribs with nothing more than a grunt and charge.  They liked to call him Brawn.

                “Only if you’re gonna put those pretty lips a’yours t’good use.”  Brawn was also a notoriously shameless flirt.  He crouched at Clint’s feet and poked at Thug Four’s concaved head.  “We need t’get you some anger management classes.”  Clint snorted.

                “Whatever, man.  They finish looting the place yet?”  Jeremy nodded and shoved his hands down Guy Four’s pants.  “Aw, Brawn,” Clint said.  “I don’t gotta see this.”  The whine earned him a disgusted glance and a wallet in the face.  So maybe Jeremy wasn’t into corpse kinks, good to know if he ever found himself in a bad way during a job.

                His co-worker gestured to the wallet before pawing through the other bodies.  These guys wouldn’t need their credit cards or cash.  They also wouldn’t need the Visa cards he found tucked away in the little clear pocket meant for their photo IDs.  He sighed and slipped them into his back pocket.  Everything would be pooled and counted together before being distributed among their five man team. 

                Davie and Brawn would get the second largest cut, being the muscle in their crew.  They boasted the extra cut was for the danger they faced and kept the others from.  Injury though they never seemed to actually need so much as a stitch.  Five thousand each, he thought.  They’d waste it on cheap beer and hookers by the end of the week, but that was why they took so many jobs.  With no kids to support they had no reason to keep the money around.  Though it wasn’t like he had little mouths hanging over his head, either.  None of the boys had families he could point to.  Unattached apart from their need for money.

                Mike had a drug habit to fund, but he’d get the same as Clint himself.  One thousand, if they were lucky.  Enough to pay for rent tomorrow, utilities the day after, and food for the rest of the month.  It wasn’t quite pay-check to pay-check.  After the circus, in fact, he practically lived like a prince.  He might even have enough left over for the bills.

                “Common,” Jeremy snapped with a hand waving in his face.  “Floors’re clear, time t’go.”

                As it turned out, Clint would have to have a damn angel looking out for him if he was going to make it until the end of the next week.  Two hundred for his trouble, five hundred for Mike’s.  As it was discussed over his silent protest, Clint had done nothing but perch in his nest all night anyway.  They hadn’t really needed him in the end while Mark had at least gotten them into the restricted floors, however damaged and disgusting they were.  The muscle each made two thousand, without grabbing card numbers or the free Visas, and they protested the sharp cut without prejudice.

                “He thinks he can stiff _us_ ,” Davie bellowed.  At thirty, ten years Clint’s elder, David Comson carried himself with a power nearly everyone shied away from.  Large hands and a gut made of muscle and steel only helped the image.  He was every bit his reputation as a ‘kill with one swing first, ask questions later’ sort of man.

                “His goddamn _team_?  Who the _fuck_ does he think he _is_?”

                “He’s Tricksho’, man.  Y’r lucky t’be on his goddamn fuckin’ _team_ a’all.”  Clint kept his mouth shut, a lesson well learned through his first job with Davie around, but it didn’t save him from being dragged into the _discussion_.  Mike jabbed a finger in his direction.  “Wha’ _I_ wanna know is why _this_ fucker’s even _here_.”

                “Aw lay off th’ kid, Key,” Jeremy moan.  He flung an arm over Clint’s shoulder and gave him a good friendly shake that felt nothing like it was meant to be comforting.  Or protective.  “Y’know Trick’s got a sof’ spot for him.”  Clint, for all his sharp wits, smiled tightly before ducking from under Jeremy’s arm.

                “Thanks for the vote of confidence, guys.  Really.  ‘Sides, boss said the take wasn’t as good as he thought.  At least you got enough t’ pay rent.”  Pity worked for him, if he looked as terrible as he felt and didn’t take it a step further.  The guys might not have been happy with it, but they cut him out of their loud complaints and didn’t notice when he slipped away with a Five-seveN in his pocket.

                A safe house in name only, Trickshot had bought the three story 1940’s home years back.  It smelled like old smoke and vomit, but half the rooms were renovated with reclaimed carpet and lovingly patched walls.  Firefighters had nightmares about places like this.  They always split the take on the second floor, in the far back bedroom where the window faced a small cube of overgrown weeds and long willow trees.  It could have been a beautiful home, Clint thought as he walked down the old red carpet runner.  Dark hardwood floors were a commodity now, and if the walls could just be repainted something brighter, a light cream, it’d be a comfortable place.

                The staircase, however, was a forgone disaster.  He hopped over the shaky planks, avoided the holes, and almost broke the curling bannister on the last step.  Reclaimed ship planks could work for this.  The whole house would smell like ship oil and lake water whenever the temperature moved above eighty, but something about that didn’t put him off.  Clint turned on the landing and started down the hall to the door.

                “Yes, enough for our equipment.”  The voice came from the second door down. Trickshot’s personal study.  Clint slowed to a lazy amble, like he had no cares in the world.  He didn’t turn his head as he passed the door, but he’d always had good eyes and he could see well enough from his peripheries.

                Two black duffle bags sat just to the side of Trickshot’s desk while the man himself stood staring out the window.  A phone was pressed to his ear, one Clint couldn’t recall seeing before.  The leader of their little organization, Trickshot always took the largest cut.  Fifty percent of their haul when directly into his pocket while he sent the rest to whatever team of men he’d taken with him.  He identified targets, kept track of everyone’s skills and set the teams.  None of them would still be walking around in the sun and air if it weren’t for him.  He kept everyone’s loyalty by keeping it fair.  Equal jobs, equal pay by effort, and utter honesty with his team.

                Clint quietly closed the front door before hopping down the stoop with a happy whistle and a furrow in his brow.  A quick estimate put even one bag at over ten thousand dollars.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and thank you for reading!
> 
> I have this fic 100% planned, with an outline and everything, so I hope to post a chapter a week, for a total of 20 chapters!  
> Comment and leave kudos if you like, and I'll see you next week!


End file.
